


Chase Scene

by levendis



Series: Prompt Fics [42]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/F, Gen, Light Angst, Nostalgia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-18
Updated: 2015-12-18
Packaged: 2018-05-07 09:50:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5452331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/levendis/pseuds/levendis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been one of those days. Post "Maveth" and "Hell Bent"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chase Scene

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [On the Prowl](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4287699) by [levendis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/levendis/pseuds/levendis). 



> for redpandanormalpanda, who requested: a follow-up to 'On the Prowl' - Someone's hijacked and commandeered Lola, and it's none other than the Doctor. Melinda May is on a hell-bent mission to retrieve it. Just as she's got the Doctor subdued and is about to deliver the final blow, Clara shows up, and there's a mutual moment of recognition between her and May.

May keeps thinking about the first time she saw Lola. Coulson’s boyish excitement as he showed off his new ride, his knowing self-deprecation. One of the things she always loved about him, the little kid he didn’t mind you knowing he still sort of was. His midlife crisis, goofy enthusiasm, the genuine smile. Cherry-red and it flew.

Feels like a hundred years ago, now.

This could be a symbolic moment if she were the sort of person to think the world followed rules the way fiction does. But it’s not, since she isn’t. It’s a mission. An unavoidably sentimental, mostly pointless mission, but still. A mission.

Lola had been stolen off the street two days ago. _It’s low on the list of priorities_ , Coulson had said. Looking defeated, looking old. Pragmatic. May was pragmatic too, and she should understand. Shouldn’t have scraped a spare few hours out of her schedule and taken the Quinjet, should have at least come up with a better excuse than ‘recon’.

Maybe she’s earned the right to be sentimental.

 

She catches up to the car somewhere over Idaho. Erratic flight-pattern, not quite out of control, but near enough. Five minutes and it’s landing, or crashing, or a mix of the two. Hits the ground rough, spins out, comes to a stop alarmingly close to a tree. She sets the Quinjet down neatly.

The driver stumbles out, heads towards the highway. She follows. Assessing him as she closes the distance between them: not physically impressive, but the hairs on her neck standing on end. Inhuman? Augmented? Alien?

“Beautiful day for a yomp through the countryside,” he yells, not turning around. He stops at the edge of the road, takes something out of his jacket pocket.

She tenses, hand hovering over her holster.

“Shame it’s about to storm,” he says, and wheels around, pointing a device that looks a little too much like a remote detonator.

So she shoots him. He looks surprised for about two seconds, then collapses like a handful of pick-up sticks. These new costumed vigilantes, so much bravado and so little common sense.

She drags him back to Lola, heels dragging in the dust. Drops him in the back seat. Thinks about taking him in for questioning. It would be the sensible thing to do. This hasn’t been the most sensible day, though. And something else is stopping her. What exactly, she’s not sure. But she gets behind the wheel and she drives, not towards the Quinjet but just - away. Up the road.

The first sign of civilization after ten miles: a diner, looking like it time-warped here straight from the 50’s. She checks in the rear-view that her joyriding vigilante is still unconscious, then parks, honks. Honks again. And again.

Honk four, a young woman stomps out of the diner. Waitress uniform like something out of _Grease_. A familiar face. One night, a hundred years ago. The tug of something approaching nostalgia. Things had been almost simple, almost fun. That night had been fun.

She takes off her sunglasses, fishes around her memory for a name. Claire?

“Clara,” Clara says, like she can read May’s mind. “Don’t worry, I know how hard it is to keep track of names when you meet so many people.”

“Melinda,” May says, hooking her thumb at her chest.

“I know,” Clara says. “You’re late.”

“ _Late_.“

"Or maybe I’m early. Nevermind, the important thing is that we’re both here, before-” She breaks off, biting her lip. “Do you trust me?”

“Of course not.”

“Change your mind. Change your mind, trust me, and listen. That man in your car, he’s not part of your fight. He’s not a threat to you. And you couldn’t keep him imprisoned if you tried, so don’t bother. There’s something he needs to do, and you need to let him do it. Just leave him, drive away, and try to forget this ever happened.” She glances towards the horizon, where the sky’s darkening, storm clouds gathering.

Trust just means setting yourself up for betrayal. Trust is a luxury the universe has firmly reminded her she can’t afford. She shouldn’t do what she’s about to do, can’t figure out why she does. Maybe it’s just that kind of a day.

“You’ll take care of him, then.”

Clara smiles, the sense of a whole lot of complication behind it. “I’ll make sure he’s okay, yeah.”

They pull him out of the car together, prop him up on a bench by the diner door. It’s surreal, this whole situation. Something about this woman, this man, this empty restaurant in the middle of nowhere.

“It’s good to see your face again,” Clara says. “Even considering the circumstances.”

May nods, and thinks about kissing her, but doesn’t. The past is the past, and she’s hit her nostalgia quota for the year. So she turns away, before she can change her mind, slides behind the wheel and revs the engine and floors it, back to the Quinjet. She doesn’t look in the rear-view mirror once.


End file.
